London. This name has come out of my mouth more times as a threat than probably anything else. In my early 20s, like many, I romanticized a life overseas—a nostalgic vision of an office job, paired with the dream of being discovered for my musical talent and catapulted to the top of the charts. I successfully weaponized the phrase *“I’m moving to London” * to send a strong signal to anyone who dared try to suffocate me with their sensible career and life suggestions. On other occasions, it became a self-soothing mechanism when life felt overwhelming. The words “I’ll move to London and start again” crossed my mind far more than they were ever spoken aloud. As I played guitar and sang to crowds of twenty, all the aspects of my life that I had deemed failures were somehow justified by the belief that once I moved to London, everything would turn around. 

 

Of course, I was open to other cities, but there was something about London that I latched onto. Like a child clinging to a parent’s leg, I was happy to be dragged along, even if the experience or the scenery didn’t seem worth the effort. But I overlooked the weather, the rental crisis, and the “hate-your-office-job” culture—London had a different vibe. It was a city that excited me, rich in history, opportunity, and of course, the English accent. 

 

The first time I touched down in London, in 2019, I felt an overwhelming sense of “I’m in the right place.” I’m known for being emotional, so it shouldn’t be a shock that I shed a tear upon landing. I remember speaking to the woman sitting next to me on the flight, enthralled by her stories of being an HR manager on a mega cruise ship. I sat back in amazement at the boldness with which people were living. Her life consisted of serving multi-millionaires and docking in exotic cities around the world. I couldn’t think of anything worse than the first part of her life, but the second—traveling to different cities—felt like a dose of ecstasy. I took this as a sign that my soul had come home to a place where my life was about to begin. 

 

At that point, I had just turned 22. I had completed two years in a finance role, having started during my internship year of a “Bachelor of International Business” This job gave me my first real taste of burnout. I’d taken on a second role before finishing my degree, but I loved it. I felt ahead of my peers, and I can admit now that I loved the sense of superiority that came with it. I would walk into an air-conditioned building, bypass the reception desk, casually flash my elevator pass from my chinos, and enter an office with a scenic city skyline. My coworkers were 5-10 years older than me, and Friday night drinks were the highlight of the week. As a teenager, I was never a "drinker" or "partier," so by bypassing the messy, cheap parties, I felt proud of myself. It was only the cool, elegant bars for me. 

 

At 21, I was the definition of a young person getting ahead full of potential. I had a confidence that I now blush at when I recall. I was confident in making conversation, meeting new people, and even speaking with high-level managers didn’t faze me. I didn’t have much stage fright, something my timid high school self wouldn’t even recognize. I dare say that confidence is something my 16-year-old self and I still share today. 

 

However, in 2019, this confidence started to dwindle as the harsh realities of being a high achiever began to show. *Achieving* had taken precedence over true interest in the role, and, as a result, a train wreck was inevitable. I needed a break, and in true perfectionist style, I decided the answer was a trip to Barcelona… for study. The study component lasted two weeks, leaving me with just one week to “have fun.” At 22, burned out from work and constantly dreaming of living abroad, I only allowed myself one week of leisure. I originally planned to split the week between Paris and London. Hilariously, I was supposed to meet my now-fiancé in Paris, but I cancelled on him last-minute. That’s a story for another time, but it’s a damn good one. I digress.

 

I spent that one week in London, mostly walking around with my headphones on, dreaming. Though there were hints of youthful ignorance in my approach, it wasn’t as if I’d never travelled before. In hindsight, this trip felt like my first real solo experience in a foreign city, filled with different cultures. It was a moment of exhaling from the burnout and stress I had never known could be released. It was the first time I truly felt at ease, as if the constant self-criticism had switched off entirely. Conversations with strangers were filled with optimism and encouragement, not the usual scepticism that had grown into self-doubt.

 

All in all, I genuinely came to believe that London was the love of my life. The buildings were grand, the people were cool, and the music was overflowing. I quickly identified the city’s heartbeat: fast, vibrant, and full of energy. For me, that was half the charm. It was a city full of confidence, chicness, self-assuredness, opportunities, boldness, and elegance. By the end of that trip, I felt like I was returning home to myself. I was bold yet calm, and I reignited my dream of pursuing music "properly." I came back from that trip knowing I needed to quit my job, finish my degree, and move overseas by July 2020. But, of course, the world had other plans. 

 

At 23, my life looked very different by the time I was ready to make that overseas move at 25—my life looked very different, and unfortunately for me not in self-confidence. 

 

So, when July 2024 came around and Nait and I sat down at our favorite Bendigo bakery to plan my “long-awaited trip,” London was once again at the top of the list. Almost every year since 2020, I had “almost” gone. I’d been trapped in cycles of job changes, burnout, and new jobs. My envy of friends and family who seemed to enjoy their jobs (even if only a little) had become as volatile as a toddler’s tantrum. I had pleaded with any higher power willing to listen. So, the fact that this trip was being planned cannot be overstated, along with the intense emotions that came with it.

 

It’s almost comical to reflect on now—London was never in the original travel plan. It’s left me doing some deep diving into my own psyche. I’m not sure why I had denied myself the very thing I had dreamed about for so long. But by the time I was planning my trip, I had also accepted that nothing would ever happen. I had stopped caring, believing *“It’s never going to happen, so why try?”* But as I sit here in Vienna, still on this very trip, I can’t say that I feel the same sombre emotions. 

 

Without much hesitation, Nait convinced me to pull my trip forward by two weeks, so now I was starting my adventure in September, and it would last until February. An overwhelming prospect. Strangely, the addition of those two weeks quadrupled my separation anxiety from Nait. 

 

Flash forward to September 24th: I’m at the airport. The week leading up to this moment involved moving houses, packing boxes, setting Nait up at his place, sending things to my parents, finishing a job, and selling a large asset. I remember lying awake on the eve of September 24th, truly processing what I was about to embark on. With my fiancé by my side, I held his hand, feeling the weight of the separation that was to follow. My loosely planned adventure had only been planned for the first four weeks. Beyond that, nothing was certain. “What have I done? What have I done?” I remember repeating over and over. The 24th was a Tuesday. I was grateful to have said goodbye to my family a few days earlier as they left for their springtime escape in Thailand. We come from a family of criers—when one person starts, we all cave. I didn’t want that to happen. I wanted to board that flight with the same confidence I had when I was flying to Greece, full of the intense faith I had when they rebooked me onto a new flight.

 

But yes of course, did I mention that earlier this year I booked a trip to Greece on two days’ notice? Hm, I might need to fill you on this first.